(Un)intentional Pyromania
by SomethingMoreQ
Summary: Alfred F. Jones has a crush on one (1) firefighter by the name of Ivan Braginsky. As a successful journalist and self-proclaimed food critic, Alfred is a catch. The only issue? He sabotages himself with crippling social ineptness every time he comes face to face with Ivan. Simply put, there're only so many times a guy can set fire to spaghetti before he looks like a major idiot.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: **_**Impending Doom; but First, an Introduction to Who is Doomed and How**_

* * *

As one of Poughkeepsie, NY's finest journalists, it was Alfred F. Jones' duty to stick his nose in everyone else's shit. Metaphorically, of course.

Besides scrounging up information and writing articles for _The Poughkeepsie Journal,_ Alfred was fond of volunteering at the local animal shelter, eating entire pots of mac and cheese by himself, and tending to his Webkinz account he'd had since he was five. But committed as Alfred was to cherishing his digital frog, he was without a partner to cherish in real life. Destitute, he would roam the streets of his town and visit numerous storefront cafés, a trail of donut/brownie/cookie crumbs falling behind him like he was some sort of chronically depressed Hansel.

At first glance, Alfred's singleness appeared to be an enigma. He wasn't unattractive, and he seemed to be in possession of all his brain cells. So, then, what was it? What kept Alfred from meeting his future spouse and sweeping them off their feet?

The answer to that question is simple, and sad. Alfred was woefully, terminally, and calamitously a social nincompoop. Ever since the ripe age of nine, when he'd sent a kickball flying into his fourth-grade girlfriend's face and broken her nose, Alfred had sabotaged relationship after relationship with his inability to act like a functional, well-adjusted human being outside of the workplace.

Alfred's older brother, Matthew, liked to call the predicament "dumbass disease," an affliction of which Alfred was the only known sufferer. Matthew had made many of these observations over the years, for he usually witnessed Alfred's social calamities first hand. Lately, he seemed to be present for more and more of these mishanters; it was Matthew's colleague who was the current cause of Alfred's lamentations.

This was because Matthew was a firefighter, and though he was a bit on the lanky side himself, he had no shortage of big, burly firefighting friends. It was the biggest and burliest firefighter of all who had caught Alfred's eye. Ivan Braginsky.

The two of them had met once. Twice, technically, but the first time was informal. Alfred liked to forget it had ever happened. Matthew, on the other hand, loved to remind Alfred that spaghetti is, in fact, very, very flammable.

The second time Alfred had met Ivan was through the grace of Matthew. He had been dating Ivan's sister, Katyusha, at the time. The interaction had taken place at a trendy, upscale Italian restaurant— by all means, the perfect rendezvous point for a classy night. But classy was far from it; the night had been a cesspool of embarrassment for Alfred. It had all started with Matthew, who, upon spotting Alfred's large plate of spaghetti, decided a dramatic retelling of Alfred's unintentional pyromania was essential.

From then on, Alfred declined any invitation to hang out with Matthew and Katyusha in fear that Ivan would tag along. He claimed to be 'traumatized.' That snafu had taken place around half a year ago. Six months later, Matthew was engaged to Ivan's sister, and the wedding wasn't too far off. Something had to change soon.

Ironically enough, it was Matthew who would set that particular fire ablaze. But it was Alfred who would pour a can of gasoline on those flames, swallow several lit matches, and ultimately burn all his bridges to the ground.

_**{-}**_

Though the carcass of a home sat smoldering behind him, and the scene was crawling with emergency personnel, Matthew's attention was on his phone. Or, more accurately, the inane question that was emanating from its speakers:

"Sooo… how was fire fighting today?"

Matthew let the query hang in the air.

After a few seconds, Alfred realized Matthew was judging him, and a series of indignant sputters sounded over the line. "What? I want to know about your day! About the fires you fought! The flames you smelted! The heat you braved! Your _comrades—_"

Matthew blinked sweat from his eyes. "Actually, Al, I'm still doing those things."

A pause. "You are?"

Matthew glanced behind him. Mostly police left, but his crew was loading up the trucks. Everyone was covered with a fine layer of soot, including himself, and he knew there were desires for cold showers all around. "Yeah, I am, but I'll be home soon. Then you can ask me about Ivan all you want, because we both know that's the reason you called."

"How dare you! Can't I check up on my brother without being accused of manipulation?"

"No, you can't. This is the third time you've done this in the past week— Oh. Hold on." The sound of boots on concrete broke prompted Matthew to glance up (and up and up and up) to meet the gaze of his fellow firefighter and future brother-in-law. Matthew muted his phone before he said, "Hello, Ivan."

"Matthew." Ivan inclined his head. He lowered himself onto the curb with a barely-audible huff and gave Matthew a pointed look. Although the visor of Ivan's helmet was streaked with grime, there was no missing the sobriety of his gaze.

With a quick, "I gotta go," Matthew ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. "My brother," he explained.

Ivan took his time removing his helmet. He set it on the concrete behind him. "Your brother," he stated. "Alfred, yes?"

_Alfred would be elated Ivan remembers his name_, Matthew thought dryly. He didn't dare speak the thought aloud though; Alfred would never forgive him if he spilled the beans. "Yeah. Alfred. He was, eh, worried about me."

Ivan sat back, resting his palms against the sidewalk. "Hm. Jog my memory. Alfred was the one with the—"

"—with the spaghetti, yes," Matthew finished for him.

"And with the—"

"—with the chocolate milk, yes." Matthew's own face flushed in second-hand embarrassment at the memory. Alfred's uncanny ability to ignore the filter most people had between their brains and mouths had caused him to have terminal foot-in-mouth disease. Which led to him insisting that if the trendy, upscale Italian restaurant had chocolate ice cream, they could surely make chocolate milk. The sentiment hadn't been serious. It was a half-formed train of thought that had slipped out before Alfred knew what he was saying.

Even so, Alfred was forever known as the guy who set fire to boiling water and spaghetti and almost got into a fight with a waiter at an Italian restaurant over chocolate milk.

"I hope you have not allowed him near a kitchen again," Ivan mused, his humor making itself known through a half-smile.

"Not without supervision. Which isn't hard to do. He says the new gas stove scares him."

"I see." The half-smile lingered on Ivan's face for a bit longer, but it disappeared as he let out a massive sigh. "Matvey, there is something you must know."

Matthew furrowed his brow. "I'm listening," he said, not without hesitance.

"Here is 'the deal,' as they say. I like you. Katyusha likes you. Even Natalya likes you. But there is an issue." Ivan's shoulders seemed to block out the sun as he loomed over Matthew. "Do you know what the issue is, _Matvey_?"

Unconsciously, _Matvey _leaned away. "You're not giving me another shovel talk, are you?" he squeaked. "I mean, uh." Matthew cleared his throat, and his next words came out sounding considerably less terrified. "No, I don't, eh, know what it is. The issue. I don't… yeah."

"Not another shovel talk. The issue is with your brother."

"With Al? What did he do?" Now Matthew sounded confused. To his knowledge, Alfred hadn't seen Ivan or Katyusha in the past six months. And even then, Alfred's antics tended to harm only himself.

"It is what he is not doing that is the issue. Katyusha was telling me the other day, she feels as if she is not acquainted well enough with your family like you are with hers." At the mention of his sister, Ivan's expression softened. "She wanted to make sure he knew that the invitation for dinner tomorrow night still extends to him."

"Oh, well. He knows alright, but I don't think…

"Katyusha is very sad," Ivan pressed. "She must feel as if it is her own fault, that your brother avoids his future sister-in-law."

A pained look crossed Matthew's face. "No, no, it's not her fault, it's just that…" But his protests were swallowed by Ivan's dour explanations.

"Family is important to Katyusha, yes? She—"

"Alfred is busy, you know, so he—"

"—and ever since Natalya returned to Russia, it has been the two of us—"

"He just likes to have time to himself—"

"Katyusha has a lot of time to herself." Ivan stared into Matthew's eyes. "Plenty of time to feel very sad."

It was a coup de grâce, and Matthew knew it. Alfred may be his brother, but no one had the right to make his fiancée feel down. And it was just one house party. He'd force Alfred to come, and afterward, Alfred could return to his hobbit hole and continue to pine over Ivan in peace. Simple. There wasn't much damage Alfred could do to his reputation in one night, not when he was under supervision. Constant vigilance would be key. But it would be worth it.

So, after a moment of consideration, Matthew acquiesced. "He'll be there tomorrow. Consider this his RSVP."

The change in Ivan was immediate. "Ax, как хорошо!" He gave Matthew a hearty slap across the back. "Wonderful! Katyusha will be so pleased."

"I'm, I'm sure she will," Matthew wheezed, forehead almost touching his knees as he doubled over. "Please don't do that again."

"Ah, sorry." Ivan patted him on the shoulder— but gently. "I forget how skinny you are sometimes. Katyusha will fix that soon enough, yes?"

_**{-}**_

Alfred took the news exactly as well as Matthew had predicted.

"I'm not going," he announced with finality. To accentuate his point, Alfred snatched a pillow off the couch and plopped down in its place. "This is where I will be staying for the next day. Try and stop me, bitch boy." He stuck out his tongue.

"Oh, yeah?" Matthew put his hands on his hips. "And what are you going to do for entertainment. The remote is over there." He pointed to the TV stand. It was several feet away from the couch, well out of reach, even for Alfred's desperate maneuvers. (Matthew had once seen Alfred snag a bag of chips with chopsticks from five feet away. Kind of amazing, to be honest.)

Alfred grinned devilishly. "Boy Scouts taught me to always come prepared, bro." He tugged his laptop from underneath the back cushions of the couch.

Matthew's mouth fell open. "Alfred!" he admonished. "Someone could have sat on that! How many times have I told you to—" he cut himself off. It was no use. Besides, he had another trump card. "And what are you going to do for food? If you order takeout online, you still have to get up and answer the door." There. Alfred was at an impassé.

"Mm-mm." Alfred wagged his finger. "Good point, but, per usual, I am one step ahead of you." He pulled a crushed bag of chips from the folds of his cottoned fortress. "Sustenance," he declared, holding the snack in the air like it was baby Jesus.

There was only one person on the planet who made Matthew want to tear his hair out in frustration, and that culprit was sitting right in front of him, grinning in victory. Oh, so Alfred wanted to play games? Fine.

Matthew fixed a draconian expression on his face. "You. Got. Crumbs. On. The. Carpet." With each word, he strode forward. He'd always been an inch taller than his brother, and he knew for a fact Alfred hated to be looked down upon, physically or otherwise.

Alfred's grin fell away. He'd sinned cardinally. "C'mon, Mattie." He held his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'll, um, I'll get the vacuum, no need to be irrational, eheheh." He climbed over the back of the couch. Good. Now there was a barrier between him and his irate brother, who was becoming less irate by the second…?

"You're off the couch, Al."

"Goddammit!" Melodramatic as always, Alfred collapsed to the floor. In the heat of a moment, he'd forgotten to cushion his fall, so a small "ow." followed his descent.

"You're welcome. Now go upstairs and figure out what to wear. That'll occupy you for, say, a good four hours or so?"

Alfred clambered to his feet. "Be quiet, you ass. You just want me to make a fool out of myself again, which we both know will happen. I don't even know what to talk about."

"Alfred." Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alfred, your job is literally to know what to talk about and make it sound as interesting as possible. You can manage."

"I can't manage anything! I'm astounded you would even suggest that."

_Deep breaths_, Matthew told himself. _Deep breaths._

He suffered through several more bouts of whining, protests, and bargaining. Through picking out an appropriate wine to bring over that was both classy and casual. Through Alfred's endless list of things that could go wrong. Through picking out an outfit that was, quote, "sophisticated and understated, like, not too flashy, y'know? But also brings out my eyes and my hair and my muscles and my ass, yeah?" But, in the end, that was that. Alfred was coming.

And _that _really was _that_, because the next day, Alfred found himself wearing a nice, collared shirt, holding a bottle of Montoya Cabernet, and standing on the porch of Ivan Braginsky's house. He was, to be frank about it, a mess.

Matthew stepped forward to ring the doorbell. The sound was like a death sentence for Alfred. He turned to Matthew, his expression pained, and began to panic in whispered tones. "I can't do this, Matthew, I really can't do this—"

The door swung open to reveal the beaming figure of Katyusha. "Matvey! And Alfred! Come in!"

Matthew strolled into the house. He put an arm around Katyusha's shoulders and shot a smirk at Alfred. "Too late," he mouthed.

* * *

**_A/N_: For those of you who are concerned about the Matthew/Katyusha relationship, calm ur tits. It's not even a side plot. Just setting things up for the big kahuna. This story is going to go hard and fast, and it will be FULL of secondhand embarrassment.**

**Special thanks to Ameena, Kaitlyn, and Danny for looking over exactly six sentences in here. You guys have no idea how much you helped me, and I am way better for it. Thank you.**

**REVIEW. PLEASE. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: **_**The Doom is Here, and Also Heavily Perfumed**_

* * *

In preparation for his debutante at the Braginsky house, Alfred had constructed a strategy. A plan of attack. A scientific method that would make him appear as a charming prospect for a future beau. The plan involved a series of intricate tactics. Step one? Make a proper greeting:

He gave Katyusha a quick peck on her cheek as he stepped into the foyer, and to Ivan, he dipped his head and stuck out his hand. "Ivan, hey."

Ivan ignored the hand and dragged Alfred into a hearty embrace. "No handshakes here!" He grasped Alfred's shoulders with what felt like two steel vises. "You are a future family member, yes?"

Alfred's face flushed vermillion. "Haha, y-yeah. Sure, sure." After several insufferable seconds, he managed to escape Ivan's embrace. He glanced at Matthew just in time to catch a look of mirth on his brother's face. Alfred narrowed his eyes. _Bastard_. Maybe step one had failed, but step two would prevail: present the offering.

Alfred thrust out the bottle of Montoya Cabernet. "I have brought WINE."

Silence followed the declaration, but after a moment of hesitance, Ivan accepted the bottle from Alfred. "Of course. Thank you."

"This wine is elegant and displays an abundance of blackberry, plum, and currant flavors tempered by a hint of _toasty _oak. It should be matched with grilled steak, lamb, or sausage." Alfred recited the description he'd memorized from Amazon. There. He knew his wine.

Katyusha stepped in before Alfred could continue on about decadent notes of oak. "Once again, thank you, Alfred." She took the bottle from Ivan and shooed them away from the foyer toward the dining room. "This will go nice with dinner. It was very thoughtful of you."

Alfred fist-pumped mentally. Score. Then, because he was on a roll, he offered to help with dinner. As soon as the question left his mouth, Matthew began to wave frantically behind Katyusha's back. He moved his arms in an exaggerated 'X.' "Do not," he mouthed. "_Please_."

"Oh, no, of course not." Katyusha set the wine on the table. "You are the guest here. The vegetables are just needing to be sautéed, so there is not much to do—"

"Aw, I insist." Alfred flashed her a grin. "You sure there isn't anything I can do? I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

"Is that so?" Ivan glanced over his shoulder.

Alfred crossed his arms, and he ignored Matthew, whose waving grew more frenetic. "Yeah, that is so, I mean, it is so. You need someone to handle the vegetables?" He thumped his chest. "I'm your man."

"I suppose I could use your assistance." With that, Ivan disappeared into the kitchen.

Alfred pranced after him. "_Bite me_," he whispered to Matthew as he passed, then he gave Katyusha another smile. "Thank you _so much_ for having us over, Katyusha. You have a lovely home."

Katyusha sighed, placing a hand on her chest. "He is so sweet."

"Mhm, m_hm_." Matthew nodded, tight-lipped.

Sniggering, Alfred followed Ivan out of the dining room. His laughter died when the hallway opened into a wide expanse of a kitchen. Honey-colored strips of hickory wood stretched across the floor. Stainless steel appliances of every kind lined the walls, interspaced between granite countertops. In the center of the room sat an island with a black stovetop, and its burners were covered with a myriad of cookware.

Alfred eyed a display of knives. "Y'all're serious about cooking."

"Yes. Here." Ivan held out an apron. It was a frilly piece of fabric, sporting pockets lined with pink lace.

Alfred ignored the way it sagged across his flat chest. "Thanks."

"It is Katyusha's." Ivan tied on his own apron. It was steel blue, and unlike Alfred's, it fit him quite nicely across his broad chest.

"It's so… stylish. It's good— great. It's great." Alfred cleared his throat. "A-anyways, what can I do? To assist?" He did his best to appear assertive in his ill-fitting apron.

"You can chop these." Ivan gestured toward two yellow onions sitting atop a cutting board.

"Great, yes, I can do that." Alfred cavorted over to the cutting board, scooping up a knife along the way. He twirled it in his hand, or at least, he tried to. The knife clattered to the countertop. _Shake it off, Al._ Alfred leaned against the counter and flipped his hair over his shoulder. "You want the onions, uhhh, julienned? Sliced? Chopped?"

"Chopped is fine—"

"MINCED," Alfred screeched, making use of his inability to filter his thoughts.

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Chopped is fine," he repeated, striding over to the stove. He bent low over one of the many simmering pots to smell its contents. "Hm. More spice."

_That ass is pretty spicy_— Alfred put a stop to those thoughts before they could go any further. He had a job to do. Slicing onions, pfft. He could do that. He'd slice those onions so friggin' hard. He settled into his menial task… and immediately became aware of how awkward the kitchen seemed. The sound of sizzling oil was indecently loud. Alfred squirmed. He had to say something. "So. Nice, uhhh, nice weather we're having."

_Stupendous, Alfred. Now seduce him with your lack of taste in all things interesting. Whatever will you come up with next._

"Sure." Ivan scraped a cutting board full of peppers into a skillet. "The nice weather. It is what has been causing many fires lately."

The knife in Alfred's hand stilled. Was that sarcasm? Or was Ivan serious? Was Ivan socially awkward too? His heart swelled with hope, but it was dashed against the rocks when he caught sight of Ivan's expression. Deadpan.

_Would Matthew be disowned if I jumped out the window._ Alfred flushed the exact same shade as the peppers Ivan was sautéing. After a minute, he decided to venture again. "What are we making?"

Ivan gestured to the cookbook, which was right in front of Alfred.

On a stand.

Open to the recipe.

"Are you crying?"

"It's the onions," sniffled Alfred.

_**{-}**_

"I have not seen Alfred in such a long time. Why did he decide to come tonight?"

Matthew glanced over his shoulder to make sure Alfred wasn't in earshot. Once he was certain, he leaned closer to Katyusha and lowered his voice. "Ivan insisted. And I may have told him it was a cultural affront to refuse a dinner invitation from a Russian family and that doing so would cause him to be shamed."

"Matvey!"

"I had to convince him! It's not exactly false, right? Right?"

Katyusha patted his arm. "I will give you that, but, as they say, you are on thin ice."

"Fair enough." Matthew let his gaze wander across the table, and it fell upon a cluster of ornately-decorated shot glasses. "Katya… are we going to do this again?"

"You know Ivan and his first impressions. He has met Alfred before, but he has never been over here. We are sharing our customs. And you have built up a resistance, yes?" Katyusha arranged the shot glasses, one in front of each plate.

"I wouldn't call it a resistance, and it isn't me I'm worried about."

Drinking shots of vodka between every course might not be the best thing to do. Then again, not doing so was a "cultural affront," and Alfred wasn't too eager to make any of those. Back in high school, Alfred had suffered through a date at a sushi restaurant to impress his boyfriend, Kiku, who was Japanese. Alfred was allergic to shellfish. He'd gone into anaphylactic shock that night. "Nevermind. It's fine. It will be fine." Discreetly, Matthew checked his watch. Three hours left. Minimum.

"Matvey, did you check your watch?"

Ivan strode into the dining room carrying a dish of _okroshka_, saving Matthew from further questioning. "It is ready," he announced. "Katya, if you would please."

Katyusha disappeared into the kitchen, almost crashing into Alfred along the way. He, too, carried a dish to the dining room—a basket of rolls. Something expendable.

Katyusha reappeared cradling a bottle of vodka. She _thunk_ed it onto the table with gusto. Thick drops of condensation rolled down the sides of the glass, and it loomed over the table with a frosty callousness. The wine seemed pitiful in comparison.

Alfred shot Matthew A Look.

Matthew pretended to be thoroughly intrigued in his spoon.

When everyone was settled and the first shots had been taken, Katyusha turned to Alfred. "I haven't seen you in so long. How is work?"

"Work," said Alfred, "is good."

"Elaborate," Matthew hissed.

"Oh, ehm, well." Alfred nudged a noodle with his fork, wondering what would happen if he formed a quick pentagram. Make a deal with the devil, ask for a set of social skills—Matthew kicked him in the shin. "Ow, alright! Um, I've actually got a pretty sweet interview coming up in a few months. Gonna stay at a hotel and everything. I'll be talking to the owner of a new bar downtown. Which is honestly pretty cool. It's space-themed."

"Oh, you like space?"

Alfred slammed his hands on the table. "Do I _like_ space? Do aliens exist?"

Katyusha giggled. "Yes? I believe so? Tell me more."

"We got him started about space," Matthew said to Ivan, taking a sip of wine. "He loves it; Alfred knows more about space than anyone else I've ever met."

"I like space," murmured Ivan.

Thanks to Katyusha's prodding, Alfred soon became as verbose as ever, complete with his usual animated gesticulations. Matthew even stopped checking his watch.

He should've known nothing gold could stay, however, for as time passed, the wine bottle grew shallower and shallower, and Alfred's pitiful tolerance to vodka began to catch up with him. He'd caught on to Russian diminutives now, and he attempted to make sense of them.

"Woah woah woah, lemme get something straight here. You've got Matvey," Alfred pointed to Matthew, "and Katya. What's Alfred?"

Ivan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Hmm. Alfredka?"

"Ka?" Alfred echoed, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Then can I call you Ivanka? Like Trump's daughter?"

"Ah, no. For one, that is the pejorative form of Ivan."

"What's that mean?"

"It means my mother calls me that when I am in trouble. Or close to it. Vanka."

"So then, what's your, uh," Alfred searched for the right word. "Pet name?"

Matthew choked on his wine. "Diminutive form," he gasped. Katyusha whacked him across the back, which caused him to choke harder. When he could breathe again, he wheezed, "It's diminutive, Al. Shortened word. Like a nickname."

"Yeah, that. Like Mattie!"

Ivan appeared to be unbothered. "It is Vanya."

"Oh, cool, can I call you Vanya?"

"Eh, you can call me that, da..."

"Alrighty, Vanya, nice to know."

Katyusha doubled over in laughter. Matthew looked confused. Alfred was unperturbed; he poured himself another glass of wine and grinned at Katyusha. "Anyways, hey, how's wedding prep?"

She frowned. "To be honest, not very good. I am having a hard time finding enough bridesmaids. Matthew has no shortage of groomsmen, but Ivan here has to be my matron of honor."

"Male of honor."

Katyusha patted Ivan on the shoulder, perhaps a little too forcefully. "That is such a funny joke you tell every time we bring this up, my dear matron of honor."

Ivan grunted. He raised his glass to Matthew. "You are sure you want to do this?"

"Are you sure _you_ want to do this?" Matthew shot back.

"I do not have a choice. Soon you will not have one as well."

"You are both so cute!" Katyusha grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured everyone another round of shots. "If we are going to talk about the wedding, we will need more drinks."

Alfred glared at his shot glass, wishing he had never brought up the wedding.

"My sister, Natalya, is one of my bridesmaids, and Elizabeta too, but most everyone I know are men. And I had such pretty bridesmaids dresses too." Katyusha sighed. "They were so pretty, right, Matthew?"

"Mhm, m_hm_," Matthew nodded, tight-lipped. "Ivan refuses to wear one for some strange reason."

"Why do we always come back to this?" Ivan crossed his arms. "We always come back to this."

"Hang on for a sec." A thought had occurred to Alfred. "If you don't mind me asking, why isn't your sister the matron of honor?"

The question hung in the air; Ivan, Katyusha, and Matthew traded glances.

"What? What is it?"

"You've never met Natalya before, have you?" Katyusha said gently. Alfred shook his head. "Well, she took a very long time to warm up to Matthew, and she has only heard of you, and…"

"Natalya does not want to dance with you."

Matthew narrowed his eyes at the Ivan, who shrugged. "I believe Katyusha was trying to sugarcoat that, I_van_."

Alfred waved a hand. "Nah, it's cool. Still can't wait to meet her though. She sounds… exciting."

Ivan popped the cap off another bottle of vodka and snorted. "She does not say the same."

"I_van_."

"Yes, sister?"

Katyusha's response was a vehement glare, which Ivan took in stride with another shrug and sip of vodka.

Something else occurred to Alfred. "Hey, hey—question. I have a question, Ivan. How come you aren't one of Matthew's groomsmen then?"

"Ivan does not want to dance with Natalya."

Now it was Ivan's turn to glare at Katyusha, who smiled sweetly. "Yes, brother?"

"Yeesh." Alfred sniggered, shaking his head. "Lotsa conflict with who doesn't want to dance with who."

"We had to rearrange the seating chart eighteen times." Matthew stared at his plate, a defeated expression on his face. "You have no idea."

"It worked out in the end." Katyusha clasped Matthew's hand in her own, and she beamed at Alfred. "At least the best man and matron of honor will share a dance. You and Ivan should pick a song soon."

"..."

"Oh, Matthew did not tell you?" Katyusha turned to her fiancé. "Did you not tell him?"

Matthew stared harder at his plate.

"No. No, he did _not_." Alfred dropped his napkin. He pushed back from the table. "Hey. I have to catch the first flight to Mexico. I will be in the Yucatán if you need me."

"Oh… that's how we say we… need to use the, eh, bathroom in our family." Matthew snatched Alfred's elbow and yanked him down to ear-level. "The guest bathroom is down the hall to the right," he whispered. "They just got it remodeled, so when you come back, compliment it. And. Take. Your. Time." He shoved Alfred toward the hall then turned back to the table with a weak smile. "He'll be a minute. Or ten."

"Does he not want to dance with Ivan?" Katyusha watched Alfred stumble out of the dining room. "I would hate to change the seating chart of the wedding again."

_**{-}**_

_This_, Alfred reassured himself, _is a tactical retreat_. He followed Matthew's instructions until he came to a door, or, as he put it, a portal to blissful isolation. Once he'd slammed (and locked) the door behind him, he allowed himself to have a proper freakout.

He flung his glasses onto the counter, scooped up a towel, and muffled a shrill, drawn-out scream. It helped marginally.

"Homygod. Okay, alright, everything is going just, peachy." Alfred began to pace the length of the bathroom floor. "I'm doing fine—good, even! Wow! I have _never _been better in my _entire _life! But oh, what's this? _Matthew_ dropped a friggin' bomb on me. When was he gonna tell me? Maybe never! Argh—ooh. What's this?"

Alfred bent down to peer at an ostentatious-looking bottle. It was miniature, and constructed of rose-tinted glass. There was no label, he noticed. Probably perfume or soap. Only one way to find out.

Alfred fumbled with the container, searching for a cap or nozzle. "How the heck do you—" With a delicate spritz, a cloud of perfume traveled from the bottle and kissed Alfred's glasses-less face. "FUCK!" His hands flew up to clutch his eyes. The bottle tumbled from his grasp. Problematic as an inanimate object could be, the bottle fell into the toilet with a soft plop.

"Oh my god, no, please, no." Muttering a series of litanies, Alfred dropped to his knees and peered over the rim of the toilet. There, at the bottom, was the perfume.

Which was fine. Good, even. Not the worst case scenario. Then Alfred leaned forward to fish the bottle from its watery grave, and he slipped. His arms pin-wheeled until he grabbed a towel for support. The flimsy—yet tastefully embroidered—piece of cloth helped just as much as you'd imagine, and as Alfred fumbled with it, his elbow smacked the flusher of the toilet.

_SchlluuuuACK_—

The toilet sounded as if it was being strangled. Water gushed over the sides of the bowl. Clutching the towel, Alfred summed up the situation with the single most expressive and versatile word in the English lexicon.

"Fuck."

_**{-}**_

Back in the dining room, Matthew was doing his best to distract Ivan and Katyusha from Alfred's extended absence. It was working. Until he happened to glance past Ivan's shoulder and spot Alfred poking his head around the corner. "Oh dear god." His fork clattered to his plate.

Ivan peered at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yes. Yes. I'm fine." Matthew picked up his fork. He looked up again, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Alfred had now crept into the center of the living room and was flapping his arms furiously. When he saw that Matthew was looking, he made a "come hither" motion.

"Matvey? What are you looking at?" Katyusha turned her head, and Ivan followed suit—

"No!" Matthew yelped. They look back at him, confused. "I mean, eh..." he trailed off. Alfred's movements grew more frantic, and he almost crashed into a vase on a nearby table. A vase Matthew knew held Ivan's grandmother's ashes. "_Oopsy_," Alfred mouthed, shrugging. He beckoned to Matthew once again, then ducked back behind the corner.

"S-sorry, could you all excuse me for a minute?" After a chorus of nods, Matthew stood from the table. He strode to the other room, rounded the corner, and glared at his brother.

"Hello."

Matthew snatched Alfred by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the hallway. Once they were out of earshot, he spun around to face his brother. "What. Happened." He took in Alfred' glasses-less face and red-rimmed eyes. "Oh, Al. Have you been crying?"

"No. It was the perfume."

Matthew's concern vanished. "What."

"The perfume. Do I smell pretty?"

"Do you smell—what—"

"You're right." Alfred shushed Matthew. "That's not what matters here. I need you. It's an emergency. C'mon."

When they reached the bathroom, Matthew froze in the doorframe. "What did you do." There was a pool of water on the ground, growing larger by the second. Steady streams of water burbled happily from the porcelain throne, and the strangled sounds persisted from the bowls of the toilet. "How did this happen."

"Uh, don't you think we've got bigger fish to fry? As in, fix this, please?"

"Hm." Matthew crossed his arms, and he took note of a soggy towel discarded on the ground. "We need more towels, for one. And we'll need to unclog the toilet."

Alfred threw his hands in the air. "No shit, Mattie! Why didn't I think of that myself?"

"If you want my help, then shush." Alfred's mouth shut with an audible snap. Matthew sighed. He stepped further into the bathroom. "Have you tried reaching in there to fish it out?"

Alfred scoffed. "Not an option. What else you got?"

"Is there a plunger?"

"Nope."

"Then reach into the toilet."

"I'm not reaching into a toilet!"

"That's our only option, Al. Do it."

"Friggin' make me!"

"That's it."

Matthew stalked forward. Alfred tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere to go. The bathroom counter dug into his back as Matthew leaned over him and hissed: "Alfred, if you don't reach in there and get that perfume, I will reach my hand so far up your ass, I will make you talk. Like. A. _Puppet_."

_**{-}**_

Two rooms over, the Braginsky family dined in a tranquility unknown to the Williams-Jones brothers. "This is such a nice, quiet evening." Katyusha smiled serenely. "It is wonderful to have all of us together."

"Of course," replied Ivan. "I am hoping we can do this again in the future because it is going so well."

_**{-}**_

Tears formed in Alfred's eyes. He strained his arm further, reaching as far as he could, but all he succeeded in doing was slopping more water onto the floor. And on himself. "I'm trying!"

"Try harder!" barked Matthew.

"Why are you being so scary?"

"Because you won't get your ass into gear otherwise. And if you don't get that perfume out, I will tell Ivan _exactly_ what you and Gilbert do in your free time."

As if prompted by Matthew's threat, the toilet slurped, and the perfume was wrenched free. "I have it!" Alfred declared, waving it in the air. Drops of toilet water rained from above.

"Good for you." Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. Alfred was soaked. The towels were soaked. The floor was a bit less soaked, thanks to the towels, but it was abundantly clear a disaster had occurred.

"Alright. We need more towels. Can you go to the…" No, no. Matthew couldn't send Al deeper into the house. God, no. That was a horrible idea; keeping Al here for a second longer was a horrible idea. "Here's what we're going to do." Matthew plucked the bottle from Alfred's hands. "You are going home. I will say you felt ill."

"Good idea. Blame it all on the sickness. That'll excuse my behavior."

"First, I'm going to clean all of this up. You are going to stay here and do absolutely nothing. Then, when we go back to the dining room, I'm going to say you threw up in the bathroom." He silenced Alfred's protests with a single look. "Would you rather I told them what happened instead? No? I thought not. I'm going to say you threw up in the bathroom and fainted in the sink. That might explain why you're wet. Barely."

Alfred glanced down at his clothes. "C'mon, Mattie, I'm not that…" A dozen protests died in his throat; he looked like he'd entered a wet t-shirt contest and won. "Fine."

Once the bathroom appeared semi-presentable, Alfred followed Matthew back to the dining room without a word. This, he admitted to himself, was not his finest moment.

As they turned the corner, Katyusha gasped. Her chair clattered to the floor, and she rushed over to Alfred in a flurry of concern. "What happened?"

"Al's feeling ill." Matthew tried to avoid answering any of the obvious questions. Such as, why are you wet; why do you smell of Natalya's perfume; and why does Al look like he's about to cry. "I'm going to drive him home. Thank you for the lovely evening. Let's do it again sometime."

"Let's not," Alfred muttered.

Matthew whipped around. "I'm going to bring the car up. Don't, _do not_, do anything stupid!" With that, Matthew stormed out of the room, his knuckles white around the keys clutched in his hand.

Ivan and Katyusha turned back to Alfred, expressions of shock on their faces. It was silent. Alfred realized he had to stop the situation from becoming even more awkward. He needed a conversation topic, and fast. Something relatable. To _all_ of them.

"So." Alfred leaned against the doorway. He crossed his arms and flicked strands of wet hair away from his eyes. "You guys remember Edward Snowden?"

_**{-}**_

The car shook as Alfred slammed the door shut behind him. "Drive." He yanked his seatbelt across his chest. "Just drive. Maybe off a bridge, if you would be so kind." The seatbelt stuck. Alfred pulled on it again. When it didn't yield to his efforts, he gritted his teeth and tried once more, grasping it with all his strength.

"You have to pull gently."

Alfred let out a breath through clenched teeth. He pulled _gently_ on the seatbelt. This time, he had success. "Stupid fucker."

Matthew bit back a quip. Instead, he put the car in drive and headed away from the Braginsky house. He spared a second to glance at his brother. "Alfred?" No answer. "Alfred, are you okay?"

Alfred held up a finger. He took his phone out of his pocket, pressed his thumb on the home button, and enunciated clearly. "Siri, go find me the nearest bridge so I can die."

The phone buffered for a second, considering Alfred's command. "Finding: newest Go Fund Me for Bridget's hair dye."

Alfred let out a wail of anguish.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Matthew snatched Alfred's phone. "Stop that. We are not driving to any bridges. We are going home, and you are going to explain to me what happened." Alfred dropped his head to the dash. "Seriously, Al, what happened?

"I don't know. I just. I just, I." He flopped his hands around as if a random gesture could convey the social mishap that was the entire night. Somehow, it did. "The bridge, Matt. Please."

"Listen, it wasn't that bad. I mean," Matthew trailed off, trying to find a part of the night that had gone well. He couldn't. "No, no, you're right. That was so bad."

Alfred whimpered.

"I mean, okay, I'm sure Ivan saw your abs through your wet shirt."

Alfred brightened. "You think so?"

_No_, thought Matthew. "Yes," said Matthew.

* * *

_**A/N**_**: Told you there'd be a lot of secondhand embarrassment. I apologize for nothing, except for how long this chapter is. Thanks for sticking around, y'all. REVIEW PLEASE. :)**

**Edit: the dish is now ****Okroshka because an astute reader pointed out the mistake in the first dish I chose. My apologies.**


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